


Aristotle and Averroes

by Chiauve



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Comedy, Drama, Horny Teenagers, M/M, Science Bros, Willsker Ship Week, teenage boy version of romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25459048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiauve/pseuds/Chiauve
Summary: Short fics of young Birkin and Wesker for Willsker Ship Week.
Relationships: William Birkin/Albert Wesker
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22
Collections: Willsker Ship Week





	1. Experiment

Birkin stared at the green, furry thing currently taking up a corner of the already full refrigerator. With a frustrated grunt he shut the door and marched to their shitty kitchen-turned-break room where Wesker was reclined on a rickety chair, a book in hand and his feet resting on the broken chair no one used.

“Wesker!”

He glanced up from his book, “Dear heart?”

Birkin winced at the stupid pet name. “If you have to use the lab fridge for your lunch, at least take it out if you’re not gonna eat it!”

Wesker arched a brow and set his book down on the table next to his shades. “I don’t keep my lunch in the lab fridge. I eat upstairs, you know that.”

“Then who’s furry Thai food is…” he trailed off, then dropped his head in his hand, “Oh my god, that’s your fucking Thai leftovers from college, isn’t it?”

“Moldred.”

“You named it? Why the hell do you even still have that!?”

“It’s my experiment—”

“We know what happens when food gets moldy, Wesker!”

“—to try and get it advanced enough to speak.”

Birkin glared. He could only hope Wesker was messing with him, but he’d also known the other man long enough to be aware that, while Wesker’s intellect was top notch and his genius almost matched with Birkin’s own, he had moments of absolute batshittery.

“Get it out of the fridge and throw it away.”

Wesker sighed and turned his head, wistful and sorrowful, “How could you be so callous of our own child?”

“Oh no, don’t drag me into your bullshit!”

“You are as responsible for Moldred’s development as I am. Remember your childish attempts to annoy me by putting your smelly socks under my bed?”

“No…” Birkin gasped in horror.

“Yes!” Wesker sat forward, a gleam of excitement in his pale eyes, “I kept her under there, and your foul laundry nurtured her in a way I never could! She is ours, Birkin, yours and mine! I suggest you ensure her survival,” he practically growled, picking up his book again and returning to it, conversation over.

Birkin gaped, but in the end could only shake his head as he went back to the labs, making a mental note to suggest to Marcus that Wesker might need some time off.


	2. The Resident Untamed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Fusion AU  
> I apologize.

Resident Evil + The Untamed

Birkin with the head of their murdered mentor. Wesker is only mildly annoyed by the Marcus head, and more because of Birkin’s bad storage methods.

* * *

The Untamed is a Chinese fantasy drama. It's very melodramatic and gay. And there are zombies.

(In hindsight, a missed opportunity with Birkin playing a flute and Wesker murdering everyone. Damnit.)


	3. Power

There was the barest of flickering before the lights went out with a deep thump felt in the bones and the sound of all devices in the residence shutting down.

“Generator went out again,” Birkin announced, closing the book in front of him in disgust.

He heard Wesker shift on the bed behind him in the dark. “Really? I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“You’re wearing your stupid sunglasses inside at night again. For all I know, you wouldn’t have.” He took Wesker’s silence as conceding the point.

This was the downside to living in a remote mansion-cum-secret laboratory out in the mountains: the power went out all the time. There were backup generators but they were exclusively for the labs below. It hardly bothered Birkin during the day but at night when he wanted to get some last bit of studying in before bed it was hellish.

There was just enough light filtering in through the window that he could make out the shapes of the room he shared with Wesker. Abandoning the desk, Birkin stripped and fumbled around the dresser for his pajamas.

They had a bunk bed, and it rankled Birkin because no one else in the residence did. He was certain it was done on purpose by the other researchers as a reminder to the two prodigies that they were, despite their genius and accomplishments, just ‘kids’. He bitched about it to Wesker the day they’d arrived at Arklay but all Wesker did was claim the bottom bunk. Birkin learned a long time ago there wasn’t much he could do about it whenever Wesker made decisions like that.

The other boy also had a tendency to sleep walk, so it made sense, though Wesker hadn’t done it in a while, as far as Birkin knew.

But top bunk, like a dumb child! So he got his vengeance when he could and, once he’d donned his pajamas, climbed onto the bottom bunk beside Wesker.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting comfy,” Birkin said, casually as he could as he wriggled close to the older boy, “what else am I gonna do?”

Wesker lazily kicked at his shin. “Go to bed then, in your bed.”

“Make me.”

There was a pause, and then Wesker moved, but Birkin was ready for him. As soon as he felt the squeaky, worn mattress dip, he threw himself to the side, rolling on top of Wesker and sitting up, straddling him. Birkin beamed at the other boy, who merely looked over his shades in bemusement.

“Oh, you think you got me, do you?” Wesker whispered, and the hair on the back of Birkin’s neck stood up. Maybe he erred, but when dealing with a sleepy Wesker it was best not to admit that.

“I can’t study.”

“There’s a flashlight in my duffel.”

“I’m not studying by flashlight.”

“Why not?”

Birkin leaned down, placing his hands on either side of Wesker’s head. “I don’t think I want to study right now.”

“Then go to bed.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Well,” Wesker’s voice was very soft, “what do you want to do, _hartje_?”

And there it was. When Wesker spoke Afrikaans he was either pissed off or horny. Or both.

Birkin swallowed. He wanted to fuck. The two of them had had sex a few times now, and it was still not easy for Bikin to make that leap from making his wants known to the actual act. He tried taking comfort in the fact he could never do worse than the first time they did anything, which to call it sex was being generous. He also tried to remind himself that for all Wesker was older, and had received only the positive effects of puberty, he was no more experienced as Birkin in the matter.

As always, Wesker took the initiative. He took off his shades and tossed them into the dark, and Birkin’s eyes had adjusted enough to see his brow arch in amusement. He lay his hands on Birkin’s thighs.

“ _Neem jou klere af_.”

Wesker could be insulting him for all Birkin knew but his voice always changed just slightly when he spoke like that, a little softer, more breathy, and it went straight to Birkin’s dick. Despite that, he reined himself into control as Wesker began untying the knot in the front of Birkin’s pajama pants.

His hands were moving before he thought about it, grabbing onto Wesker’s wrists and moving his arms above his head. Wesker peered at him in confusion and curiosity, not fighting.

“I...” Birkin swallowed again, “I want to do it.”

Wesker always took things from words to action, leaving Birkin passive until they really got going, but suddenly, even Birkin was surprised, he didn’t want to be passive tonight.

“Oh?” Wesker’s tone changed to mocking, “I thought you liked how we did things.” To emphasize the fact Birkin really had no control over the situation, he bent his knees, forcing Birkin forward, and lazily crossed one leg over the other.

Something inside Birkin burned and it had nothing to do with being horny.

“You think you’re so great,” he seethed, “That I can’t do anything to you.”

Wesker narrowed his eyes and twisted his thin lips into a smirk. “I know it.”

And Birkin hated it was true. He was holding Wesker by his wrists but the other boy was hardly pinned. Older, bigger, and the fucker still found time to work out. He could toss Birkin aside like he was nothing on a bad day.

Birkin leaned forward, putting all his weight onto his arm, trying to pretend he could do something, and his other hand pressed to Wesker’s chest, twisted into his shirt, and tried pulling him up. Wesker shrugged, amusing his colleague, and let himself be pulled up into a desperate kiss.

Not enough, he could do nothing, he was a mockery...

Birkin growled, released Wesker’s arms and lay on him with his full weight, hands moving to Wesker’s shoulders and neck as thy made out, Wesker’s own traveling to his back, kneading into the material of his pajamas. Birkin kicked at Wesker’s legs until he dropped them, then shifted his way between Wesker’s thighs.

The older boy laughed, breathy and short, but Birkin knew he was laughing at him.

Fuck you fuck you fuck you, Birkin mouthed as he trailed desperate, gnawing kisses down Wesker’s jawline and to his neck, burying his face into wild, blond hair.

Wesker’s hands traveled downward, momentarily cupping Birkin’s ass and thrusting him forward just slightly, another reminder, before they slid back up and under Birkin’s top. Nails grazed Birkin’s side but it just angered him more.

In a flash of unthinking anger and lust, Birkin reached up, grabbed a handful of Wesker’s stupid long hair and _yanked_.

Wesker’s head snapped back with a strangled noise deep in his throat, his whole body taut under Birkin’s, and a sudden, very insistent hardness poking into Birkin’s hip.

Oh. _There it is._

“Got you,” Birkin whispered into his ear.

Wesker panted, his nails digging into Birkin’s side. “You...”

He didn’t get to finish as Birkin slid his hand behind Wesker’s skull, grabbed another fistfull, and pulled Wesker’s head back, hard.

He practically arched under Birkin, his gurgled keen dragging off into a moan, his hands dropped from Birkin and gripped the sheets of the bed.

Birkin was so fucking hard now.

He wanted this. He wanted Wesker writhing, a mess, a mewling, pathetic, helpless pile of flesh to enjoy beneath him. He wanted to _strangle_ him...

He took a breath, calming. Later, he told himself, and settled with using his free hand to start pulling at Wesker’s sweatpants. Wesker did little more than pant beneath him, one hand managing to reach up and grab hold of Birkin’s wrist, the one gripping his hair like a lifeline.

It was Birkin’s turn to laugh. Who’d have thought it was really so easy to bring the great Practical Al down? Birkin was in charge now, Birkin was the genius, the youngest, the...

“ _Maak gou_!” Wesker snarled, and brought up his long, stupidly flexible leg to knock Birkin in the back of the head with his knee.

Birkin sighed. Right, Wesker didn’t really do foreplay.

He gave the long hair another pull, getting Wesker back into some pretense of control, and started working on getting his shitty band shirt off.

It was a start, he had time. They were both young, Birkin had all the time in the world to learn how to crack Wesker wide open.


	4. First Meeting

For all that Birkin loathed the nickname bestowed upon him by his fellow researchers during his Arklay days, even he had to admit it was apt at times. Usually too much so, was the problem: “Scholarly Will”, really? One could only hope they all were. But looking back as an adult he had to admit it had nothing to do with being learned but his approach to all things at that age. Every decision backed by prior research, his ideas checked and double checked with every available journal, text, and paper on hand.

Contrast to his closest colleague, “Practical Al”, whose approach was never via prior research or hypotheses, but whatever was most likely to get him his results, whatever they may be. After years of working together their ways of looking at their work and theories married into an efficient, fully explored, and yet brutal method that launched them ahead of their peers.

But as a young genius, teetering on the edge between boy and adolescent, Birkin’s mind was still locked in his scholarly outlook, even outside his work and studies.

As such, moving into the university dorms was a predictable, planned affair, made easy and efficient by the fact none of his family was present. His father dropped him off at the curb with his suitcases and bags and, without actually saying so, told him to succeed or forever be the failure of the family. Because the fact William was thirteen and entering university was not enough. Looking back, he realized it would never be enough because he always had to do better, even when he was the best.

And he _was_ the best. William Birkin was going to be the youngest bio-engineer, and with that extra time he would launch himself ahead of all the competition and still have the majority of his life in which to indulge in all the mysteries the world had to offer, to decode them, rewrite them to his will...

He set his suitcase and bags on the dull twin bed farthest from the door and began to unpack. The bed on the other side of the room remained untouched and he eyed it with what would be considered apprehension by normal folk, but Birkin considered it proper wariness.

Birkin never had to share personal space before. He had two older siblings but his father was a medical doctor, well revered in his circles, and wealthy. The house had always been big enough that Birkin had his own room and if so desired could hide away from the rest of his ever so obnoxious family. Most times.

His still-absent roommate was mostly an unknown, but Birkin managed to learn a little. After all, he too was some young genius, so it made sense that they share living space.

Were Birkin someone other than Scholarly Will, he might have felt relief at that information; someone close to him in age, someone to share his unique struggles in being a boy surrounded by adults, in having to prove himself and be viewed as an intellectual equal, if not superior...

But Birkin’s relief in the matter was more sensible than that. Someone his age would not regard him as a threat, or continually challenge his right to be there. They might also share similar styles of thought, as a young mind was different than that of an adult in its processes.

Most important, however, was that his roommate, while young, was older than him, keeping Birkin still established as the youngest. As the best.

This would work, because a young genius like Will, in the same field of study, would undoubtedly share many aspects in upbringing and education, so they could even start to work together and allow Birkin to excel with little difficulty.

And then Albert Wesker kicked in the door.

(In truth, Wesker merely opened it as any person would. While he considered himself hot shit from day one, he was still bred in the manners of proper etiquette and wouldn’t go kicking in doors unless he had a reason. But Birkin, despite his scholarly title, always had an exceptional imagination, something that allowed him to excel more than just his intellect, and Wesker’s appearance in the doorway was such an important moment to the boy that he always recalled it far more dramatically than it was.)

Birkin stared at his roommate, and cursed the non-existent gods, every last one of them.

Albert Wesker, though only a couple years older than Birkin, was puberty personified, blessed in every aspect Birkin was accursed. He was taller, though not yet full height, with clear skin, young but toned, and fair, wild hair that went a little past his chin.

Birkin could have tolerated that. He’d loathe his roommate and imagine his death over and over, yes, but he could handle it, but this fellow young genius was...

The unkempt hair, a ragged tee shirt under a jacket, jeans with holes in the knees, and a pair of aviator shades that he was still wearing indoors. He had a duffel slung over his shoulder and nothing else.

How fucking _dare_ this guy.

Birkin worked his ass off to get where he was, not just in academics, but in the required social circles that enmeshed the university world, particularly those with connections to his father. Though he was terrible with people, most forgave him of his awkwardness and too-blunt mouth only because he was young. But the weaving of these networks was exhausting and an utter waste of time he could have been using otherwise. Hours wasted on talking nonsense, combing hair, and ironing shirts so he looked appropriate.

And then there was this asshole, who looked like he’d just rolled out of bed.

His roommate regarded him a moment (or at least Birkin assumed that’s what he was doing, what with those stupid shades on), before tossing his mostly empty duffel onto the floor by the available bed.

Fuck, this kid had muscles on those arms.

Birkin squeaked out an “Um...” and the blond’s head whipped back around to him, then let him hang as he said nothing himself. Say something.

“Are you here to kill me?” Not that.

A pale brow arched into view over the shades, and the newcomer shrugged. “Only if you piss me off.” He then tossed off his jacket and flopped onto the unmade bed, ankles crossed and hands behind his head, and didn’t move again for several hours.

In that moment Birkin hated this kid. Strolling in like he owned the world, he probably thought that he did, that academia would also bow to him like everything else. Oh, Birkin didn’t doubt his roommate was smart, he did get here, after all, but obviously he lacked what was just as important as brains: the drive, the need, the _obsession_. He probably scored high on some tests and got a ride.

Fine, Birkin was perfectly happy to ignore his roommate until he was gone, because this fool was about to realize how in over his head he was. Intelligence alone wasn’t enough.

He wouldn’t last.


	5. Change

Birkin knew something was wrong as soon as he walked into the lab. Wesker was already there, alone, which by itself wasn’t rare, sitting with his head in his hands in a state of tragedy. But that wasn’t what set off Birkin’s internal warning klaxons.

Wesker looked wrong.

Glancing up at the sound of Birkin’s entrance, he actually _whined_ , “Birkin…”

And the true horror of what had happened stared Birkin in the face. The proof of it lay in chunks and swaths on the floor, golden and dead.

“You,” Birkin choked out, unable to stop staring, “you cut your hair.”

Understatement. Wesker’s hair, always at least down to his chin since the day Birkin met him, had been haphazardly cut with lab scissors by what could have only been a desperate, amateur hand. Worse still, Wesker’s wild hair had been kept in some form of control by the weight of its own length, but now, freed, it stuck up and out in all directions. He looked like he’d skinned a yellow, long-haired kitten and glued its coat on his head.

Birkin held the laughter in as best he could, well aware Wesker would murder him and experiment on the body if he let it go. But god he wanted to, he wanted to so bad it physically hurt.

He coughed into the back of his hand instead. “Why did you…?”

“I was told to…” Wesker sounded so pathetic and lost, like he didn’t know. Birkin rankled at that sound.

“So? That never bothered you before!” The director had in fact outright ordered Wesker to cut his hair several times, and yet Wesker either ignored him or pointed out that as long as they tied their hair back in the lab, their female co-workers were permitted long hair, ergo he was as well.

“A bit different when it’s the damn CEO, isn’t it?” Wesker snapped.

“Is that what he said to you?”

There had been no warning, no fanfare, but suddenly Spencer himself was at the training facility, taking a look around. The director went into Igor mode, practically hopping about in trying to please his master as he guided Spencer around the mansion. His stop through the labs was brief, and the memory of it still made Birkin burn with fury.

He was the best here, the youngest, the _smartest_ , even Wesker agreed on that! But no, Spencer barely gave Birkin a glance as he passed through, going straight to Wesker when the director pointed him out.

The CEO hadn’t looked pleased about something, and spoke shortly to Wesker but Birkin couldn’t make it out, taking minor pleasure in Wesker’s berating.

Wesker sighed, his hand flicking back, expecting to toss his hair over his shoulder, but redirected to run his hand over the shortened strands instead. “He told me to start ‘looking like a damned professional’.”

Well, Birkin couldn’t ague with that, Wesker still looked like he’d been buying drugs from behind a 7-11 some days.

“So…?”

“So I was going to ignore him, like he’d ever know! But I came to finish up and start shutting down the lab for the night when next thing I knew…” He picked up the scissors and gestured to the blond hair scattered across the floor.

“You just…cut your hair.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember doing it?”

“I remember it happened but…” he trailed off, his brows furrowed in blatant worry. He wasn’t going to finish, he’d never admit to it, but Birkin knew the rest: it wasn’t me doing it.

That happened a lot back in school. And like those days, Wesker would forget about it by tomorrow. He remembered doing it and therefore he meant to do it.

Birkin shrugged. Wesker’s stupid amnesia issues or whatever they were were his problem; Birkin wasn’t going to be slowed down or drawn away from his work, not even by Wesker.

“You did a bad job.”

Wesker glared.

“Give them here,” Birkin walked over to Wesker, hand out for the scissors.

Reluctantly, Wesker gave them up. Birkin directed him to turn the chair and stood behind him, sifting through the blond hair and snipping at the worst of the uneven tufts. Wesker’s hair was unfairly soft, and Birkin gently kneaded fingers over his scalp, for his own enjoyment as well as an attempt to calm Wesker, vibrating and tense in his seat.

He knew he was the only person Wesker ever let touch him like this.

“Since when did you become a barber?” Wesker said, voice still sharp but he sounded less distressed.

“You doubt my ability to do whatever I set my mind to?”

“I doubt your ability to care about anything outside your goals, and my appearance is nowhere near there.”

“Like you’re any different,” Birkin muttered, running the pad of his thumb behind Wesker’s ear. The teen before him shuddered a little, then eased.

While Birkin would never consider himself a professional, or even particularly good at it, he’d been trimming his own hair for years. It started when he was young and whenever his hair had grown to “unseemly” lengths, his mother would give him a genuine bowl cut, with a bowl and everything. He loathed it. The look, his mother’s clumsy work, the heavy bowl on his head, all of it. So in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable, young William used everyday scissors from the drawer to snip at his own hair, keeping it from getting too long. Over the years he got better at it and could manage a decent enough trim that we went bowl free for months.

But a trim couldn’t save Wesker’s mess. Birkin evened it out best he could but the hair was so wild and unmanageable that no matter how he combed his fingers through it or where he tried to part it it just fluffed up like a pissed-off cat again.

The worst part was while the hair was still long enough to grip, he wouldn’t be able to get a good handful and _yank_ anymore, and there was no faster way to make Wesker a writhing, panting…

“What’s the verdict, Doctor Birkin?”

“You messed up.” He passed Wesker one of the concave mirrors they used when dealing with Lisa Trevor so she couldn’t sneak up on them while their backs were turned. An addition after the second researcher got her face ripped off.

Wesker slumped, staring forlornly at his reflection. He would always state otherwise, claim he was above such things, but his appearance was very important to him. Sometimes he would even be beholden to the current fashion, as Birkin learned the day he walked in on Wesker altering a pair of jeans into bell-bottoms. He claimed it was for when he was out on the road; people were more willing to pick up a generic hitchhiking youth out finding himself, supposedly. Birkin didn’t know enough about the subject or care to argue the matter and let Wesker distract himself with stupid, mundane things.

Whatever gave Birkin the edge.

Not to say he never paid attention to Wesker’s looks, obviously, but his colleague’s penchant to look like a bargain-bin rocker had never been part of the appeal. The first time he’d actually looked at Wesker had been in school when he’d invited his roommate back home with him during Christmas, because he couldn’t let Wesker spend his break studying in peace and getting ahead.

Birkin’s father was a traditionalist who viewed family dinners as events that required everyone to be in their Sunday best, and Wesker, even in the black turtleneck that was the nicest thing he owned, wasn’t going to cut it. If he wanted to eat, he needed to look a proper man, which also meant the shaggy hair was out. Fortunately, Birkin’s older brother, Caleb, was amused by the whole thing and loaned Wesker some clothes and showed him how to gel his hair back into a ponytail they hid under the collar of his shirt.

Without his stupid aviator sunglasses and the hair out of his face, Birkin got a good look at Wesker and for the first time noticed…

Wait. Wait wait wait. Of course!

“Come on, finish up and we’ll go back to the dormitory.”

Wesker glared at him through the mirror. “I’m not letting everyone see me like this.”

“Nobody likes you anyway,” Birkin said, shoving him out of the chair, “and you can just say it’s the new efficient look and they’ll be all ‘ah, right, Practical Al at it again!’”

“I hate that name.”

“At least yours is vaguely you. The fact that I’m the ‘scholarly’ one among researchers says what kind of people we work with.”

They went out the back to the residence just so Birkin didn’t have to listen to Wesker bitch all night and returned to their room. Once there he kicked out the chair to the desk and motioned Wesker to it while he rooted through his things. He knew he had some somewhere…

“What are you doing?” Wesker sighed, but he sat anyway.

With a victorious “ah-ha!” Birkin found his tin of never-used pomade. He was supposed to use it for when he went to church because his mother assumed he was still doing that, for some reason. He tossed the tin to Wesker.

“Oh,” was all Wesker said, turning it in his hands. He then stood up and headed for the door.

“Where’re you going?”

“Bathroom.”

“You’re putting it in now?”

“This,” he hissed, referencing his hair, “is unacceptable,” and then left.

Birkin shrugged, grabbed his most recent notes and necessary reference books, and flopped onto his bed. He didn’t notice Wesker come back until the older boy was standing in front of his bed, the band shirt changed out for the turtleneck.

“Well?”

Birkin sat up to get a good look at him. Wesker’s hair was completely slicked back, looking almost too stiff for all the fluff the gel had to pin down. It wasn’t a good job, too many lumps and gaps, and the back stuck out a bit. Wesker needed to get to town to get a proper cut. And yet…

“That…looks good,” Birkin said, and meant it, “You look older.”

Wesker only nodded and disappeared again, and Birkin went back to his studies, problem solved.

He expected Wesker to grow his hair out again, especially after they left the training facility and were given free rein under Marcus, but it never happened. Wesker continued to flaunt the dress codes where he could but for the most part one could never argue that he wasn’t professional.

Birkin liked the look, at first, but the constant use of hair gel meant that Wesker wouldn’t let anyone, even Birkin, touch his hair anymore.


End file.
